


Healing

by Syndal



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3383498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syndal/pseuds/Syndal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard to start over when they all know what you've done. Samson x Templar!Inquisitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Healing

Since he had “joined” the Inquisition, Samson spent most of his time craving. He craved lyrium, he craved a fight, he craved _her_. Tonight, he craved liquor. Something dark and foul, like him, a thought that made him smirk. He had not gone to the tavern since he arrived, had not wanted the attention his presence might stir, but tonight he would dare it.

The tavern was crowded, full of loud, bawdy music and roaring laughter. He could hear the Qunari telling some story from the other side of the room. Somewhere, that elven bint was shouting something obscene. Samson wanted quiet, but this would have to do. He seated himself at the bar, gesturing for the mouthy dwarf to bring him a drink. He was not three swigs in before a soldier approached him.

“You’ve a lot of nerve, showin’ yourself in here,” the soldier snarled.

Samson looked up from his drink, annoyed. Maker, he was just a _boy_ , with a pimpled baby face and fat red cheeks. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

“Sit down, boy,” Samson drawled. “I’m here to drink. You want to fight, we can meet in the sparring ring when I’m done.”

“My brother was killed by your Red Templars. I ought to run you through right where you stand!”

“You ought to, but you won’t.”

Before he knew it the boy had spun him ‘round and pinned him to the bar. He drew his gloved hand back and gave it all he had. It was a good hit, one that made pain explode behind Samson’s eyes. Somebody had taught him well.

And then he drew back again. And again. And again.

Someone shouted, it may haven been the soldier. It may have been Samson. Mid-swing the boy was pulled off of him by two guards, thrown back out of the tavern door into the training yard.

“Put him in the stocks until he’s cooled off,” the Inquisitor called after them.

"Wonderful," Samson sneered under his breath. "Exactly who I wanted to see."

She moved to his side, looking him over. “Maker, he got you good, didn’t he?”

Samson rubbed his jaw. He’d be black and blue tomorrow, no doubt. “I’ve had worse, your Worship.”

“Still,” she frowned. “Come with me, we’ll get you patched up.”

Samson didn’t want to go with her. He wanted to finish his drink, then down a hundred more, but who was he to deny the Inquisitor, the Herald of fucking Andraste?

He followed her to the keep like a good dog.

***

She had turned to him when the door closed, all concern and pity. It made him want to scream.

“Are you alright?” The Inquisitor asked tentatively. There was a little bottle in her hand. He already knew what it is.

“I don’t want that,” he snapped. 

“Your eye is starting to look like a plum,” she sighed, offering him the healing potion. “Take it. It’s from my personal supply. I have more than I know what to do with.”

Samson chuckled, but the sound was hollow. “I’ve taken enough from you already, I think.”

She looked at him then, those big, sad eyes stripping him bare, boring holes so deep into his soul that it hurt — it _hurt_ to meet her gaze. He hated and loved her for it.

“You could have stopped him, easily,” she said. “But you didn’t.”

“Deserved it,” he muttered. “Red Templars killed his brother.” 

The Inquisitor was quiet, for once. He knew she was searching for something to say, rolling the words around in her head like she could force them into a sentence that would make it better. But she couldn’t. There were no words deep enough to salvage what he’d done, the ache he’d caused. Every man and woman in this damned keep had been hurt, in one way or another, by him. He saw it in their faces in the training yard, in the tavern, the grand hall. He _felt_ it when their gaze was upon him, sharp as daggers. They all bore a story, some black tale of the mistakes he’d made and the lives he’d taken. He hated them for reminding him, and when the lyrium withdrawal had begun to set in, he hated her for sparing him. The headsman’s axe would have been kinder. The thought of an end, the peace it might bring… It stole the breath from his wretched lungs, forced it out into a broken laugh.

“Samson.”

When had she moved so close? Only a step away. He could have reached out and touched her. He imagined what she would do if he did —  if he just ghosted the pad of his thumb down the slope of her neck, the curve of her collarbone, and lower… 

She took a step closer. He could smell her perfume, see the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

And then her hand was on his cheek —  not hot like he expected, but cool and welcome, like water in a desert. Maker, it felt like he was dying of thirst. Samson knew he didn’t deserve this. 

“Don’t,” he growled, jerking away from her touch. “Save your fucking pity.”

He tried to put distance between them, but when he started to move her free hand rose to cup the other side of his face, forced him to look at her. He closed his eyes.

“Samson,” she said again. “Look at me.”

He couldn’t. He _couldn’t_.

“Please.”

Something inside him stirred at that simple word, a part of him that was still _him_ , untouched by the lyrium, locked so far away he’d forgotten it was there.

He opened his eyes and met her gaze.

“You were a good man once,” her strained voice fractured with every syllable, echoing the words she had uttered at his trial. “You can be one again. You must believe that.”

And there — suddenly he could see the crux of it all in the shine of her eyes. Parallels drawn between them, unspeakable deeds in the name of things greater than themselves, weight borne by bodies meant to break. He wanted to say something, knew he should; something to assure her that she was not him, that she would not break under the Order’s yoke, as he had. But he couldn’t. No words in any tongue Samson knew could ease that fear. 

So instead he grinned, a toothy, wolfish thing.

“Well, I’ve got the Inquisitor’s vote of confidence,” he rumbled, “that’s something, ain’t it?”

She reached up to touch the sore, swollen flesh around his eye, eliciting a curse from him. “Most would think so.”

“Take care of that eye, Samson.”

And then she was gone. Out of the corner of his good eye, he saw the healing potion, left on the table. He drank it, for her and for him.


End file.
